


A Many Splendored Thing

by fallingintodivinity



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Dubious consent (not between Geralt & Jaskier), First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Full (& enthusiastic) consent between Geralt & Jaskier, Jaskier being adorably & canonically slutty, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:48:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22592026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingintodivinity/pseuds/fallingintodivinity
Summary: “One of these days,” Geralt pronounces ominously, with the air of an oracle announcing an imminent minor natural disaster, “your habit of sticking your cock where it doesn’t belong is going to get us intoreal trouble.”“Ah, well,” Jaskier says brightly. “You’ll be around to defend me, right?” He beams at Geralt. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 114
Kudos: 802





	1. Chapter 1

Jaskier starts in surprise, sitting up in bed as the bedroom door slams open loudly and violently. Next to him, Marie the barmaid quickly sits up in bed as well, clutching the blankets protectively to her chest.

There is a beautiful and very angry-looking woman standing framed in the doorway of Marie’s bedroom, hands on her slim hips. Jaskier takes a moment to appreciate the way the woman’s long chestnut hair falls artfully over her shoulders, curls brushing the swell of her cleavage, because the woman may be visibly furious but she is also _very_ beautiful.

“Sienna, darling,” Marie says in stifled, guilty tones, staring wide-eyed at the woman in the doorway. Jaskier peeks at his bedmate out of the corner of his eye. He hadn’t known Marie had a lover, much less one so beautiful. If he’d known, he wouldn’t have minded her joining them…

“Don’t you ‘Sienna, darling’ me!” snaps Sienna, advancing into the room.

…or not. Jaskier begins, slowly, to edge toward the side of the bed.

“It’s not what it looks like?” Marie tries, faintly.

It is, unfortunately, exactly what it looks like.

Jaskier – keeping one wary eye on Marie’s enraged lover the entire time – has managed to ease one leg into his discarded trousers when Sienna turns toward him. “And _you!_ ” she says, venom dripping from every word. “How _dare you,_ seducing my sweet, innocent Marie – ”

Marie had been the one to approach Jaskier earlier, actually, but this is probably not the right time to mention that fact. Nobody can accuse Jaskier of not being a gentleman: he doesn’t kiss and tell. (Telling Geralt doesn’t count; Geralt is Jaskier’s best friend and is thus privy to pretty much every detail of Jaskier’s life, but Geralt is hardly going to run off and tell Jaskier’s secrets to anyone – well, except perhaps to Roach, to whom Geralt seems to speak more than he does Jaskier, some days. Jaskier wonders if it’s weird that he’s jealous of a horse.)

Jaskier is abruptly and terrifyingly recalled to the present when Sienna’s hands begin to crackle blue with magic.

“Oh, no,” says Jaskier.

Discretion is, after all, the better part of valor. Jaskier leaps out of the bed, hopping around on one leg as he shoves his other leg into his trousers, then grabs his boots, dodges around the angry sorceress and makes a hasty – and shirtless – exit from Marie’s cottage.

***

“What,” Geralt says flatly when Jaskier – still shirtless – finds him in the room they’re sharing at the inn, and tells him that they have to leave town, preferably _right the fuck now_. “No.”

“ _Ge_ ralt,” Jaskier says pleadingly.

Geralt eyes Jaskier’s bare chest, then snaps his eyes away. He seems to make a conscious decision to not ask about Jaskier’s current state of undress.

“Don’t you even want to know _why_ we need to leave?” Jaskier says plaintively. He grabs a spare shirt that’s lying on the bed and tugs it on – he already wore it yesterday, but dire situations such as this call for drastic measures – and trails behind Geralt as his friend crosses the small room.

Geralt pointedly ignores him and covetously eyes the steaming bath in the middle of their room, then starts to unbuckle his armor. Jaskier had accompanied Geralt on a drowner hunt earlier that evening, then left with Marie while Geralt went to collect his reward, and apparently Geralt had considered it a higher priority to get a pint of ale in the meantime rather than take a bath, because he is still covered in drowner slime and smells _terrible_.

Jaskier pokes at Geralt’s armored shoulder with an exploratory finger. His finger comes away wet and sticky.

“Ugh,” he says, wrinkling his nose. He edges over to the bed and wipes his finger gingerly on the blankets. “Look, Geralt, here’s the thing, I really wouldn’t be asking you to leave town in the middle of the night unless it were _really_ important, and especially not when you’re still covered in monster, uh, slime – I mean, _I’m_ the one who’s going to have to smell that stuff all the way to the next town, not to mention poor Roach – ”

“ _Jaskier,_ ” Geralt says sternly, and it is _seriously_ unfair that the weight of Geralt’s full attention, those gold eyes focused on him and him alone, always makes Jaskier’s knees turn to jelly, makes him feel hot and prickly all over. Damn his hopeless crush on Geralt, anyway. Jaskier promptly loses his train of thought, mouth hanging open.

Geralt arches an impatient eyebrow, and Jaskier blinks, snapping his mouth shut. Need to leave town, right. He explains the situation to Geralt.

“Are you _trying_ to get yourself killed,” Geralt says, looking deeply exasperated, when Jaskier finishes his explanation. “A sorceress, Jaskier, really?”

“I didn’t know!” Jaskier protests. “Marie didn’t mention a lover, much less one who was _also a sorceress!_ ” He pouts at Geralt. “I do have some sense, you know.”

Geralt snorts, and makes no reply. Jaskier shoots him an injured look.

“One of these days,” Geralt pronounces ominously, with the air of an oracle announcing an imminent minor natural disaster, “your habit of sticking your cock where it doesn’t belong is going to get us into _real trouble._ ”

“Ah, well,” Jaskier says brightly, heartened by the fact that Geralt had said ‘us’ and not ‘you’. “You’ll be around to defend me, right?” He beams at Geralt. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Geralt huffs in an irritated manner. A large glob of drowner slime slides slowly off the front of his armor and falls to the floor with a loud, wet plop. Jaskier winces.

Geralt glares accusingly at the glob of slime, then at Jaskier. After a long, meaningful pause, he continues fiddling with the buckles on his armor. And honestly, Jaskier would normally be _thrilled_ to watch Geralt undress, because Geralt is so bloody gorgeous it makes Jaskier want to weep, but right now, his priority is making sure he stays alive long enough to _keep_ watching Geralt undress. Which means that they need to _get away from the angry sorceress who wants to kill Jaskier._

“Look,” he says, inspiration striking. “If you’ll leave with me right now, I’ll help you with your bath when we get to the next town.”

Geralt stops unbuckling his armor, and eyes Jaskier warily for a long moment.

“You’ll wash my hair?” he says finally.

“ _And_ brush it,” Jaskier says. He beams hopefully at Geralt.

“Hm,” Geralt says, and starts to re-buckle his armor. “Fine.”


	2. Chapter 2

Being allowed to help Geralt with his bath is both a blessing and a curse. On the upside, Jaskier gets to put his hands all over those lovely muscles without Geralt knowing the effect he’s having on his poor frustrated bard. And on the downside… Jaskier gets to put his hands all over those lovely muscles _without Geralt knowing the effect he’s having on his poor frustrated bard._

It’s bad enough when he has to climb into the bath behind Geralt so he can get a better angle to scrub bits of drowner off the witcher’s broad back. Being covered head-to-toe in a thin layer of slime does nothing to diminish Geralt’s raw beauty, and the way he groans, warm and pliant and content under Jaskier’s hands, should be illegal in at least thirty towns that Jaskier can name off the top of his head.

The sounds Geralt makes when Jaskier scrubs his hair, firmly massaging his friend’s scalp with the pads of his fingers, are _definitely_ illegal in at least ten of those towns.

When he’s finally gotten most of the slime out of Geralt’s hair, Jaskier slowly pours heated water through his friend’s hair to gently rinse it clean. Because life is unfair like that, the way Geralt silently tips his head back, eyes slipping shut, lashes dark on his pale skin as he trustingly bares the vulnerable curve of his throat… _that_ does more to quicken Jaskier’s heart than anything he’s done in bed with any lover in the recent – and not-so-recent – past.

He can see the pulse fluttering in Geralt’s throat, slow and even. He wants to put his mouth on it.

The worst part is, since he’s sharing a room with Geralt, there is nowhere for Jaskier to go to…take care of things, so to speak. By the time they head to the tavern for dinner, he’s got quite a lot of excess energy to work off. Geralt keeps slanting odd looks at him. Perhaps he can smell the pheromones wafting off Jaskier with his witcher senses.

By a stroke of luck, the tavern they’re having dinner in hasn’t booked any entertainment for the evening, so Jaskier happily fetches his lute and starts to sing. He’s always loved performing: it makes him feel energized, and on days like this, when he’s feeling wound-up, it’s a fun distraction. Besides, he’s getting low on coin; he’d better start saving up so they can afford a room with a bath after Geralt’s next hunt.

And if Jaskier is very, very lucky, it’ll be a horribly messy and disgusting hunt and Geralt will want his hair washed again after.

(Gods, Jaskier thinks mournfully. He really is a glutton for punishment.)

The crowd at the tavern is drunk and cheery and unexpectedly appreciative of Jaskier’s performance. Not that his performances aren’t _always_ worthy of appreciation, mind you, but sometimes his songs just don’t get the adulation they rightly deserve, okay? (Too cerebral, perhaps? He’d asked for Geralt’s opinion about that theory, but Geralt had merely grunted in a noncommittal manner, which was inconclusive.)

This crowd, though? Jaskier _loves_ this crowd. Clearly, the people of this town have impeccable taste. Riding high on adrenaline and the cheers of his tipsy and merry audience, Jaskier glances across the crowded tavern to where Geralt’s sitting at a table right in the very corner and unerringly catches his friend’s eye. He winks saucily at Geralt.

One corner of Geralt’s mouth twitches up just the tiniest bit, and Jaskier can’t help but laugh out loud in sheer pleasure. He’s only halfway through the list of songs he’d planned to sing, and he’s already collected more coin than in his past three performances combined.

This amount of coin will keep him and Geralt in decently nice rooms in inns for the next week at least, and will definitely pay for at least one more bath. Which means that he and Geralt won’t have to camp in the wilds for at least a week.

Jaskier is not a big fan of camping out in the open, where he’s at the mercy of the elements. Although, it’s kind of nice, on cold nights, when he gets to share a bedroll with Geralt so they can conserve body heat. Purely for practical reasons, of course: he’s not that kind of bard. Or…well. He kind of is, just a little. But only ever with willing and enthusiastic partners, and to Jaskier’s everlasting sorrow, Geralt has never shown the slightest bit of interest in bedding him.

On a happier note, that is evidently not the case with the people in this tavern tonight. To top off what is, in Jaskier’s estimation, shaping up to be a surprisingly promising evening, he’s mobbed by admirers after he’s concluded his performance. They ply him with ale and flirtations, and he concludes the night by leaving the tavern sandwiched between the town blacksmith’s gorgeous brunette daughter and the equally gorgeous blond son of the town baker.

He grins at Geralt as he leaves. Geralt is as stone-faced as ever, but Jaskier can _feel_ Geralt rolling his eyes internally, where he thinks Jaskier can’t see it.

***

The next morning, Jaskier wakes in the blacksmith’s daughter’s bed to find her and the baker’s son in the middle of a loud argument over which one of them gets to have him first that morning.

Normally, Jaskier would consider this a thoroughly delightful dilemma in which there are no wrong choices, but his companions promptly prove him wrong when, on noticing that Jaskier is awake, they both fling themselves on him and the whole thing devolves into a clothes-rending (Jaskier’s), hair-pulling (not Jaskier’s, thank the gods) deathmatch between the two.

Mildly disturbed, Jaskier sadly eyes his shredded clothes, which appear to be beyond repair – that was his favorite doublet! – then makes a hurried escape with only a bedsheet to protect his modesty.

The inn, fortunately, isn’t too far away.

When Jaskier bursts into the room he’s sharing with Geralt, his friend immediately rockets out of bed, sword in hand. Jaskier blinks wide-eyed at Geralt, who’s clad in only his smallclothes and is clutching one of his swords tightly in one hand. Geralt stares back at him. His hair is hopelessly mussed and half-falling over one gold eye. It’s painfully adorable.

“What the hell happened to you?” Geralt demands. He gestures up and down to encompass the tragedy that is Jaskier’s current situation: hair a mess, clad in only a sheet and barefoot with mud going halfway up his calves, boots clutched in one hand and lute slung over his shoulder. Jaskier beams.

“I thought you’d never ask!” he says brightly. “Just a little, er, competition between the lovely woman and man who shared my bed last night. Things got a bit out of hand.” He grins cheekily at Geralt.

Geralt sighs heavily and rolls his eyes to high heaven, which is seriously rich for a man who likes to pretend that he has never experienced an emotion in his life. “Spare me the details,” he says.

Jaskier grins and sits down on the bed, bending over to wipe the mud off his feet as Geralt shuffles back to the other side of the bed, still grumbling under his breath about being woken up at ungodly hours by promiscuous bards. He turns to watch as Geralt puts his sword carefully and lovingly down before getting back into bed.

“If I’d actually been in trouble, you would’ve saved me though, right?” he says.

Geralt snorts, pulling the sheets up to his chin. He shuts his eyes firmly.

“That’s not a no,” Jaskier says happily.


	3. Chapter 3

When Jaskier and Geralt arrive at the tavern that evening, it’s just as crowded as it was the previous day. The blacksmith’s daughter is there again, drinking with her friends, and she treats Jaskier to a come-hither smile, lashes lowered flirtatiously, when he glances in her direction.

The baker’s son is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he and the blacksmith’s daughter had put aside their differences after Jaskier left, and she’d tired him out.

…or: the blacksmith’s daughter has killed the baker’s son and buried his body, which would be a really bad thing but would also be _in no way Jaskier’s fault._

Geralt glances around the tavern then immediately makes a beeline for the most out-of-the-way table he can find. Jaskier beams cheerily at the blacksmith’s daughter then trails after Geralt, who’s already ordered dinner for both of them by the time Jaskier reaches the table.

Jaskier’s repeat performance at the tavern after dinner is met with even greater enthusiasm than that of the night before. Not only does he earn a frankly ridiculous amount of coin again, but his admirers also begin to proposition him even before he’s finished his performance.

Nonplussed, Jaskier ends his performance two songs early and is immediately surrounded by what feels like at least a quarter of the clientele of the tavern clamoring for his attention. A handsome, well-built man with blond hair going slightly grey at the temples introduces himself as Bert, then offers to buy Jaskier a drink. The moment Bert leaves, a lovely dark-eyed woman takes his place; she’s barely had time to introduce herself before she’s unceremoniously shoved out of the way by another woman trying to get Jaskier’s attention.

And, look – Jaskier knows he’s good at flirting. He likes the push-and-pull of it, finding just the right way to make yourself seem interesting and funny and make the other person feel good about themselves. It’s _fun_ , being on the receiving end of that answering spark, the fizzy-sweet anticipation that playful smiles and sweet words might eventually lead to kissing and touching and getting naked and sweaty with someone attractive.

The thing is, Jaskier has barely even spoken to anyone in this tavern (besides Geralt, obviously), and all these people are already throwing themselves at him. It’s just a little…unusual, is all.

He eases his way out from the loose circle of the three women and two men surrounding him, all eagerly vying for his attention, and edges over to Geralt, who’s still seated at the table he and Jaskier’d had dinner at. Geralt is watching Jaskier with an odd expression on his face.

“What is it?” Jaskier asks, sliding onto the stool beside Geralt’s.

“Hm?” Geralt says vaguely. He looks none too pleased at suddenly being surrounded by the throng of people who’d trailed after Jaskier and are now crowding behind him still trying to get Jaskier’s attention.

“That look,” Jaskier says, and gestures in the general direction of Geralt’s frankly very pretty mouth, which is twisted into his habitual scowl. “Not that you don’t do the whole ‘tall, dark and brooding’ thing _spectacularly_ well – well, maybe not the ‘dark’ part, so let’s go with ‘tall, pale and brooding’ – but my point remains, you do brood so very beautifully. I’d accuse you of practicing in front of a mirror, except I’ve shared hundreds of rooms with you and never seen you do it, so I suppose it’s just natural talent on your part.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls, sounding faintly exasperated.

“Just asking what the matter is,” Jaskier says hurriedly, before the exasperation turns to annoyance.

Wordlessly, Geralt flicks his gaze in the direction of the group of people clustered around them.

“Um, yes,” Jaskier says. “About that. It’s rather…”

“ – odd,” Geralt finishes shortly, and – well. That _was_ exactly what Jaskier was thinking, but he’s completely unprepared for the sudden, sharp hurt that spikes through him at Geralt’s blunt assessment. Surely it’s not _that_ odd that someone – or a few someones – could find him attractive?

A small part of him knows that he’s probably overreacting, that it probably didn’t even occur to Geralt that Jaskier might do anything else than take his words at face value. A larger part of him, though – the part that’s stupidly, hopelessly arse-over-tit for Geralt – can’t help but wish that Geralt would look at the people crowding around them, and feel…what? Irritated? Jealous?

Jaskier’s not even sure what he wants, not really. He wants to know that he means something to Geralt. Something more than a presence Geralt barely tolerates, or a convenient extra pair of hands when Geralt has a wound that needs stitching up.

It's not something he has the right to ask for. And yet.

Interrupting Jaskier’s dark mood, Bert, the tall blond man who’d offered to buy Jaskier a drink earlier, returns at that moment, a mug of ale in each hand. He offers one to Jaskier.

“Oh! Um,” Jaskier says, taking the ale. “Thanks, Bert.”

He glances at Geralt, who is stone-faced as usual, then nods to Bert and takes a huge gulp of his ale. Bert smiles happily back, edging a little closer to Jaskier with a hopeful air.

“Surely it can’t be _that_ unbelievable, Geralt,” Jaskier says, with a levity he doesn’t feel, “that there could be someone who would willingly spend an evening in my company?”

Geralt sighs heavily. “Not what I meant,” he mutters – but Jaskier is already turning to Bert with an inviting smile that he privately hopes doesn’t look _too_ forced. It _hurts_ when all he wants is for _Geralt_ to look at him that way; as if – even if just for a little while – he’s the only one in the world who matters.

Bert glances between Geralt and Jaskier, looking uncertain. “I don’t want to interrupt anything…” he says apologetically.

“You’re not interrupting,” Jaskier says firmly. “At all.” He smiles at Bert, who immediately beams back at him.

Jaskier turns, facing away from Geralt, and lets Bert lead him out of the tavern.


	4. Chapter 4

Jaskier wakes up alone in bed the next morning, tangled in a nest of blankets with sunlight pouring in through the open window next to the bed. He blinks drowsily around at the unfamiliar room, confused for a moment, before remembering what he’d done the previous night, and with whom.

Ah, yes.

Bert.

Who is clearly an early riser, since he’s currently nowhere to be found, and – Jaskier squints through the open window, rubbing his eyes – the sun isn’t even that high in the sky yet. He yawns, shoves the mess of blankets down and looks around for his clothes.

Just as he’s leaning over to retrieve his trousers from the pile of discarded clothes on the floor next to the bed, the bedroom door slams open so violently that it bounces off the wall with a loud thump. Jaskier yelps in shock, dropping his trousers back on the floor and almost falling off the bed.

“Jaskier!” Bert bursts into the room, beaming broadly. He’s carrying a huge bouquet of brightly-colored flowers in the crook of one arm. The bouquet is so large that it obscures half his face.

“Good morning, Bert,” Jaskier says, and eyes the bouquet of flowers with some trepidation. “What…are you doing with those?”

“They’re for you!” Bert says with great enthusiasm, and thrusts the bouquet under Jaskier’s nose with a flourish. Jaskier hurriedly flails backward to avoid getting smacked in the face by a profusion of leaves and petals, and cracks the back of his head hard against the bedroom wall.

“Ow,” he says, wincing. He gingerly rubs the back of his head. “Um, thank you! But why did you buy me flowers?”

Bert is still holding the bouquet out to him with both hands, so Jaskier has little choice but to take the flowers from him. He sneezes, rubs his nose, then looks from the flowers back to Bert questioningly.

“I would like you to move in with me,” Bert declares cheerfully, and Jaskier drops the flowers on the floor.

He blinks at Bert. “I…you… _what?_ ” he splutters.

“We’re clearly perfect for each other,” Bert says in eminently reasonable tones, as if he and Jaskier haven’t only known each other for roughly ten hours, seven of which were spent _asleep_. Although Jaskier concedes that the three hours preceding that _were_ spent getting to know each other fairly…intimately. But, he reminds himself, that is most certainly _not the point here!_

He sneezes again, then very carefully and tactfully conveys the aforementioned sentiment to Bert. Bert, however, seems to have suddenly developed selective hearing loss and stubbornly maintains that it must’ve been Destiny that brought him and Jaskier together, and also that Jaskier is the love of his life.

“Er,” Jaskier says doubtfully. Last night had been fun, sure, and Bert really does have very lovely muscles, much like a certain witcher Jaskier is absolutely not thinking about – _not the point,_ Jaskier reminds himself – but this really does seem like a rather disproportionate response after just one night together. Also, the determined look in Bert’s eye as he advances on Jaskier is starting to make Jaskier nervous.

Something is definitely Very Wrong here.

“Ah, well,” Jaskier says brightly, stifling another sneeze as he slides out of bed and hurriedly scrambles into his clothes. “If I’m going to be moving in here, I’ll need to get my things – bards come with all sorts of accessories, you know – so, anyway, I’ll just pop out for a bit then, back in a jiffy – ”

He picks up his lute then smiles nervously at Bert, inching toward the bedroom door all the while. When he’s finally out in the hallway, he hurriedly shuts the bedroom door behind him, then takes off for the inn at a sprint.

***

When Jaskier arrives at his and Geralt’s room at the inn, his friend is already awake, and looking even grouchier than normal. As Jaskier stumbles into the room, Geralt looks up from where he’s sitting on the side of the bed facing the door, sharpening his swords, and scowls darkly at him. It’s quite likely as not a reflex, since Jaskier hasn’t even opened his mouth yet.

He stops in his tracks, sneezes, then blinks at Geralt. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Geralt says, then seems to reconsider. “Didn’t sleep well,” he mutters after a pause.

“You okay?” Jaskier pats his friend comfortingly on the shoulder as he heads toward the other side of the bed to pack up his things. “Did the bed feel too empty without me?” he adds teasingly, then mentally kicks himself because flirting with Geralt, even jokingly, is _not_ helping his hopeless crush on the man.

Geralt grunts in a noncommittal manner – which is not a reply in the negative! – but before Jaskier can start reading too much into Geralt making his usual Geralt noises, his friend has twisted around on the bed to stare at him.

“Why are you packing your things?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier sneezes again, then rubs his nose. “Um. You didn’t find any contracts here, right? Shall we move on to the next town, then?” He digs a handkerchief out of his pocket and blows his nose into it.

Unfortunately, Geralt is not fooled in the least. He narrows his eyes at Jaskier.

“What happened,” he says flatly.

Sheepishly, Jaskier tells Geralt about Bert’s odd behavior earlier that morning, and the flowers (oh gods, _so many flowers_ ), quickly shoving his clothes into his pack all the while.

“ – then I backed out the door, and here I am,” he finishes, slightly out of breath. He busies himself with tucking his handkerchief back into his pocket, looking everywhere but at Geralt, reluctant to see his friend’s reaction to his tale. It wouldn’t be unreasonable for Geralt to say ‘I told you so’ and let Jaskier deal with this one on his own: Jaskier is, after all, the one who worked himself into a completely unwarranted snit and then ran off with Bert when Geralt hadn’t even actually done anything wrong.

When he finally summons the courage to look Geralt in the eye, his friend is frowning at him with what looks like faint concern, mixed with puzzlement. Geralt shrugs one shoulder, then carefully stores his whetstones and starts packing up his things.

Jaskier grins at Geralt with a rush of gratitude: of course Geralt wouldn’t abandon him. For all that he complains incessantly about how much trouble Jaskier is, Geralt always, always looks out for him.

Geralt stares back at him with a look of deep suspicion. “Why are you smiling at me like that?” he asks.

“Oh, no reason,” Jaskier says, then pulls his handkerchief out again and buries a huge sneeze in it. “By the way,” he says, putting the handkerchief away, “you wouldn’t happen to know of any monster or…creature, or something…that could cause people to act like that, would you?”

Geralt shakes his head. “Could just be an isolated incident,” he says. “We don’t have enough information yet for me to be able to tell.” He closes his pack and slings it over his shoulder, then opens the bedroom door and gestures at Jaskier to precede him out the room.

“Oh,” Jaskier says, as they descend the stairs to the inn’s main entryway. “Okay.”

“Maybe he really just liked you,” Geralt says, after a long pause.

Jaskier turns to eye Geralt suspiciously, but Geralt doesn’t look like he’s joking.

“Your company is…not _entirely_ intolerable,” Geralt adds, with the gloomy air of a man confiding that he’s contracted a horrible and incurable disease.

“…oh,” Jaskier says faintly, and almost trips and falls headfirst down the stairs.

***

As they pass the inn’s breakfast room on their way out, Jaskier heaves a sigh and longingly eyes the breakfast that some of the other patrons of the inn are eating. He hadn’t had time to eat anything during his mad dash back to the inn, and he doubts Geralt’s had anything to eat, either.

He’s pondering the wisdom of stopping for breakfast before they leave and is on the verge of suggesting a breakfast stop to Geralt, but then by pure chance, he glances out the window of the breakfast room that looks out onto the town square, and spies Bert striding purposefully toward the inn. He’s got Jaskier’s massive bouquet of flowers in one hand.

Jaskier groans, grabbing Geralt’s arm in a blind panic. When Geralt turns to him, a questioning look on his face, Jaskier gestures despairingly at the window.

“It’s _him,_ ” he wails.

Geralt, in turn, peers out the window and scowls. He puts a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, turns him around and firmly steers him toward the exit. En route, Jaskier hurriedly retrieves a handful of coins from his pocket, grabs a mouth-wateringly fragrant, freshly-baked loaf of bread off the counter, leaves the coins and waves cheerily to the barmaid, who smiles and bats her eyelashes coyly at him.

Once they’re outside, Geralt goes to get Roach from the stables, then the three of them quickly head out of town. When they’re back on the wide path leading to the next town, Jaskier tears the loaf of bread he’s still holding into two and hands half of it to Geralt.

Geralt tends to forget to eat regular meals even at the best of times; he’s more of an ‘eat-to-live’ rather than a ‘live-to-eat’ kind of guy. Jaskier, however, has seen Geralt at banquets, so he knows Geralt enjoys his food, when he remembers that it’s there. It’s a pleasure all its own to see Geralt eating something he likes rather than just accepting whatever’s available, so Jaskier watches with unabashed enjoyment as Geralt devours the hunk of sweet-smelling, warm bread.

Jaskier’s Geralt-watching is unfortunately interrupted when he has to stifle a huge sneeze in the crook of his arm.

Geralt turns to him, brow furrowed.

“You’ve been sneezing all morning,” he says. “Are you ill?”

Jaskier shakes his head. “I feel fine. It was probably the flowers,” he says morosely.

“Flowers?” Geralt says blankly.

“Bert got me flowers,” Jaskier reminds him. “A _lot_ of them. There were probably buttercups in there somewhere.” He sighs. “I’m allergic to buttercups.”

Geralt stares at him. “But your name… _means_ …buttercup,” he says slowly.

Jaskier makes a face at him. “Trust me,” he says. “I’m well aware of the irony. Mother certainly never lets me forget it.”

“Hm,” Geralt says. It’s one of his more eloquent ‘hm’s, the one that means that he’s mildly amused but is pretending that he isn’t.

“Mother always says,” Jaskier sighs, “that she should have chosen some other flower as a nickname for me. Like a dandelion or something.”

“Dandelion?” Geralt says. One corner of his mouth keeps twitching, like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Shut up,” Jaskier says. “She likes yellow flowers.”

“Kind of suits you,” Geralt says thoughtfully. “It’s a cheerful flower.” He smirks. “And they grow everywhere, dandelions. Can’t get rid of them.”

“I hate you,” Jaskier says.


	5. Chapter 5

The next village they come across has a serious endrega problem.

Geralt leaves his belongings in their room in the inn, then promptly disappears to talk to the village chieftain about the endregas. Left alone, Jaskier drops his belongings in their room, then takes his lute and heads downstairs to find a quiet corner so he can start working on a new song.

He's so absorbed in penning lyrics, humming under his breath to fit words to music (look, Geralt's long, luscious locks deserve an entire ode of their own, and Geralt may possibly kill Jaskier for being the one to pen said ode, but it will be _worth it_ ), that he doesn't even notice the small crowd of curious villagers gathering around him at first. It's only when the villagers begin to crowd closer, murmuring admiringly as they pet his hair and tug at his clothes, that Jaskier's head snaps up, and he jerks back in mild alarm.

“Er,” Jaskier says. He scoots slowly backward toward the doors of the inn, clutching his lute protectively to his chest as the villagers eagerly trail after him. “A little space, perhaps? Some breathing room for the bard? Please?”

He's almost made it to the entrance of the inn when the main doors swing open behind him, and he backs right into someone's broad chest. He spins around.

“Geralt!” Jaskier says in deep, deep relief.

Geralt blinks, warily eyes the eager crowd of villagers, then frowns suspiciously at Jaskier.

“What did you do _this_ time?” he demands.

“I didn't do anything!” Jaskier protests. He shoots Geralt an injured look.

Geralt raises an eyebrow, then looks pointedly at the crowd of villagers clustered around Jaskier.

“I swear I wasn't doing anything weird!” Jaskier says, pouting. “I was just minding my own business, writing a new song – a _fantastic_ new song, by the way – about your hair, and then _this,_ ” – he waves a despairing hand at the crowd, still clutching his lute close with his other arm – “just... _happened!_ ”

Geralt squints at Jaskier, momentarily diverted. “...My _hair?_ ”

One of the villagers chooses that moment to make a grab for Jaskier. Jaskier yelps indignantly, flailing backward. Geralt's large hand promptly lands on his shoulder, steadying him, and when he chances a quick glance over at his friend, Geralt's glaring at the villager with an expression like thunder, brows drawn down and a ferocious scowl on his face. Jaskier sighs under his breath. “This really _isn't my fault,_ ” he mumbles.

Geralt, however, pays Jaskier no attention – well, apart from the hand that's still gripping Jaskier's shoulder tightly.

“The bard's mine,” Geralt growls at the crowd of villagers. “You can't have him.” He promptly hustles Jaskier out the door and shuts it firmly behind him.

And yes, Jaskier _definitely_ has other things to worry about right now, but somehow all he can think about is Geralt calling Jaskier _his_ , because, yes, apparently he _is_ that far gone for the beautiful, oblivious bastard. He sighs pathetically and peeks at Geralt out of the corner of his eye.

The inn door opens again, and the barmaid, a petite, pretty little thing, steps out of the door. She spots Jaskier, and immediately, her eyes light up. Next to Jaskier, Geralt makes a stifled, inarticulate sound.

“Oh dear,” Jaskier says, just as the barmaid puts her fists up and _dives_ at Geralt, very evidently intent on fighting the witcher for – well, for _Jaskier_.

“Miss,” Jaskier says hurriedly to the barmaid, who is _not listening to him at all_ – “Miss, I really wouldn't – ”

Geralt sighs heavily. He bodily picks the barmaid up, opens the inn's main door again, gently deposits the girl inside the inn, then slams the door shut. The witcher then proceeds to glance around him, obviously searching for something. His gaze lands on a solid wooden bench, which he goes over to, then, muscles straining, he grabs one end and drags the whole thing over to the door of the inn, barring it so that nobody else can come out.

“Oh,” Jaskier says faintly, rather overwhelmed by all the lovely muscles on display. He jumps as there's a loud pounding from the other side of the door.

Both Jaskier and Geralt stare at the door, then at each other.

“Er,” Jaskier says uncertainly. “I think I might be...cursed? Or something?”

Geralt sighs faintly. “I'll talk to Yen,” he says.

***

Since he obviously can't wait at the village while Geralt goes on his hunt, Jaskier accompanies Geralt out to the forest to track down the endregas. It's honestly a wonderful opportunity to watch Geralt in action close-up and will no doubt give him _tons_ of material for his next few songs, but he's too preoccupied with spending the ride out to the forest pondering how he'd managed to get himself cursed to really enjoy the thought.

“Oh,” he says suddenly, just as they reach the outskirts of the forest.

Geralt glances over at him, Roach's reins in hand. “What is it?”

“I just thought of something,” Jaskier says. “Remember that sorceress, Sienna? The one I told you about, when you were on that drowner hunt – ”

“The one you pissed off, yes,” Geralt says bluntly. “By sleeping with her lover.”

Jaskier winces. “I told you, I didn't know! As if I would've done it on _purpose._ ”

“Hm,” Geralt says noncommittally, and eyes Jaskier in an unfairly accusatory manner.

“I would _not_ have done it on purpose!” Jaskier insists. “I don't have a death wish.”

“Could've fooled me,” Geralt mutters, then clears his throat. “So, was she the one who cursed you?”

Jaskier shrugs helplessly. “Maybe? In any case, she's the most recent person I pissed off.” He pauses thoughtfully, then adds, “I think.”

Geralt sighs in a long-suffering manner and rubs a hand over his face.


End file.
